The War of the Winter Rose
by The Betwixt and Between
Summary: The story of Robert's Rebellion, with Lyanna at its center. Four-shot.


**Lyanna**

Lyanna Stark hadn't intended to fall in love with the prince. She had been satisfied with her match to Robert Baratheon; not happy, perhaps, but that would have come in time. Robert was a good man, and he loved her. She loved him, too, just as she loved Brandon and Ned. That should have been enough.

And it was enough, until that fateful tourney at Harrenhal. The first day of the joust impressed her little. She was a better rider than half of the knights in the tourney, and on par with the rest. The other noble girls seemed to think differently. They sighed and swooned each time the Young Dragon rode his blood bay stallion into the field, looking for all the world like fire made flesh in his ruby armor. _He's good_, Lyanna thought grudgingly. But what prince wouldn't be? Any man with a good master-at-arms and time to practice could make a fine jouster and a better swordsman.

On the fourth day, everything changed. Not when Rhaegar unseated Brandon; no, that had still stung Lyanna's Stark pride. It happened at the feast, when Rhaegar drew out his wood harp and began to sing. The cavernous hall went quiet as the prince began to sing the low, haunting melody of a song Lyanna had never heard before. _Any man with time to practice can play a harp_, Lyanna thought as the last note echoed through the hall, _but that voice._ _That voice is a gift from the gods._

The next day, Rhaegar Targaryen's violet eyes met her brown ones, and he placed the crown of winter roses gently in her lap.

The slow, seeping wetness between her thighs brought Lyanna out of her reverie. It took her a moment to remember where she was: the Tower of Joy, with the Red Mountains of Dorne looming to all sides. She sat still for a moment, then realized what that wetness meant. Leaping up, Lyanna tore off her doeskin breeches and smallclothes to investigate.

She was dry; it had been her imagination once again. Lyanna had not had her moon's blood in over two moons.

_I never wanted to be a princess_, Lyanna mused. _Not like other girls._ All she'd really hoped for in a marriage was a man who would accept her as she was, who would let her ride and fight and laugh and be free. She could have been happy at Storm's End; Robert had even promised that they would go hunting together. But she'd thrown that all away. Now she was the secret wife of a handsome prince, and the Seven Kingdoms were at war because of her. And in an ironic twist, the one thing she'd really wanted—freedom—had been taken from her.

Lyanna heard footsteps coming up the stairs, she hurriedly pulled up her smallclothes as the door opened and the busty handmaid entered, chuckling good-naturedly at something Ser Whent had said. Lyanna was still struggling with her breeches. The waistband was uncomfortably tight. Lyanna and the handmaid locked eyes.

Wylla closed the door with one hand, balancing the tray of food in the other. "Your body's changing, milady," she said mildly. "I've been sewing you a new dress so you can get out of those uncomfortable breeches. 'Twil be done soon."

"This Dornish fare is much richer than what we eat in the North," said Lyanna bravely, but there was a knowing twinkle in Wylla's eyes. "Nothing t' be ashamed of, milady," the handmaid said. "I'm with child too, as it happens. Does milord know he's to have another child?"

_Another_. The thought rankled. Even though she was a princess too, lawfully wedded before the Seven (_his_ gods), their child would never be Rhaegar's heir. That honor belonged to Elia's little whelp, a newborn boy they called Aegon. "You presume too much," Lyanna snapped at the handmaid. Wylla curtsied and took her leave.

Lyanna sat down at the large table and pushed her food about her plate, suddenly guilty about how she'd treated the maid. Wylla had always been kind to her. Although she was only a few years older than Lyanna, the maid had a motherly air about her. She was the only one keeping Lyanna company since Rhaegar rode off to war, and it was she who finally convinced the Dornish cooks to stop putting those fiery peppers in her food. _And now she's sewing me a matron's dress_, Lyanna sighed.

Having lost her appetite, Lyanna got up and walked to her favorite window, the one facing north. Somewhere out there, good Northmen were fighting and dying for her. Others too: Jon Arryn's falcons from the Vale, the Tully's of the Trident, her betrothed Robert and his stiff but loyal younger brother Stannis. All because she hadn't had the courage to break Robert's heart, to defy her father, to tarnish the Starks' honor. Now her father and eldest brother were dead, and her husband and her betrothed could be killing one another at this very moment. And she, the one who'd started it all, was locked up in a tower thousands of leagues from Winterfell. Rhaegar had said it was for her own protection, but she knew the truth: he didn't trust her. And he shouldn't.

"I'm a Stark," she whispered fiercely, but as she reached up to wipe away her tears her hand brushed against a swollen, tender breast and she remembered the little Targaryen growing inside her. "But I love _him_."


End file.
